


purple

by perhapssoon



Category: Splatoon
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, read at ur own risk, really bloody, uhhhh, yikes this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2020-01-11 07:48:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18426177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perhapssoon/pseuds/perhapssoon
Summary: It's all purple and he can't take it.





	purple

**Author's Note:**

> heyyyy i made avi suffer twice in a row what is this,,, i personally hc that inkling blood is blue but,,, in this fic, it's the ink color

He doesn't know what he's doing. He doesn't know why he's here. The thin shaft of light that stretches across his bed at two in the morning is faded, washed out like the ink dripping from the ceiling. The screams stopped hours ago, gut-wrenching shrieks that tear him to shreds just upon remembering it, cries of horror, pain, to  _please stop please stop please make it stop_  echoing in his brain.

He doesn't want to remember. He doesn't want to see. The clock is ticking away and he watches the minute hand creep past the thirty minute mark, that damned purple stream trickling its way around the silvery circle plastered to the wall, the constant drip drip drip of the ink landing on the threadbare carpet. He closes his eyes, but opens them again, violet hues snapping open, pupils dilating twice the normal size as he struggles to stay together, to not fall apart at the seams. He's unraveling, the stitching meticulously made in bright sunlight and cheerful laughter cutting into two, fabric ripping open to fall forgotten to the floor, buttons cracking off and shattering on the concrete.

_Not yet._  A voice, whispered through the covers as the sun rays slowly brighten the room in a vivacious glow, hands intertwining with his own, warm underneath the cotton sheets, the zipper of his jacket digging between his shoulder blades.  _Not yet._

He holds on, precious seconds ticking by, rivulets of purple running down the light blue of the walls, staining it dark, emptying the contents onto the floor, his eyes forcing himself to look away and out the window to where the moon mockingly shines like it did so many nights before.  _Not yet._   _It's only water._

But water isn't purple, water doesn't hit the ground with a noise that makes his stomach churn, bringing bile to the back of his throat, rubbing it raw. Water doesn't give him this hollowing sense of loss, make him want to scream in agony and grief. Water doesn't curl down the wallpaper like this, leaving trails that are detectable, even in the darkness, because it's so much darker than the night sky. 

It's not water. He knows that well.

But  _it's only water_. And he hears screams to  _make it stop please make it stop_  as sirens wail around him. The minute hand edges towards the seven. Yet he stays in bed, eyes glued to the ceiling, thuds and shouts echoing above him, a cacophony of muffled noise that he wants to grab from thin air, hold it against his chest, absorb it to get rid of it, to forget about it, anything.  _Not yet._

The stars are laughing at him, shrill piercing whistles that invade his ears, scratch through his mind. There's a wetness on his cheeks and he reaches up to brush it off, viscous liquid that he watches run down his fingers, leaving cold streams in their wake. He wipes it off, shutting his eyes again.

It couldn't end like this. It shouldn't end like this.  _Not yet._  

Resolve strengthens in his mind, iron chains wrapped around him, hard and unforgiving, vanishing as he pushes aside the endless blankets, endless handmade quilts. There's a smile, he remembers, a smile accompanied by a flick of a tentacle as it brushes over his hand, a lilted feminine voice telling him that he should keep the quilts, that he deserves them. He remembers that smile, and another, one that isn't so obvious, one that sparks the eyes and lightens the cheeks, hidden behind a mass of ebony black and ivory slits, and he knows he smiled back, but the genuine meaning of it isn't there.

Does he regret it?  _It's only water._

He stands, the shards of his sunglasses crunching under his feet, and he hears the wire frames snap, a sound that hurts him almost as much as the screams do. But he can't stop, he can't look around. An almost ghostly wind comes in through the open window and ruffles his tentacles, the collar of his jacket, and it carries him out the door, to the stair.

One step.  _It's only water_  yet the purple is still there, smeared along the banister, curling in handprints along the base, like the owner was dragged away. He knows by the way his heart clenches and his lungs compress that this isn't water.

_Not yet._

Two steps. The purple continues on here, dripping down the side and seeping into the carpet, slithering like a bunch of thin snakes down the stairwell.

Something wet touches his arm and he doesn't look up for the source, doesn't trust himself anymore. Three steps.

Four steps and his shoes are sliding in something slippery, and he closes his eyes as he continues, remembering a voice laughing, light-hearted and happy, telling him that his fashion sense is something they would only allow because they were his friend.  _His friends_. Are they still his friends? Is  _he_  still their friend?

He doesn't look down, brain begging him to  _please stop please make it stop._

Ten steps. He remembers sliding down the staircase here, short and fun, giggles echoing in the hallways as they climb the steps, dragging mattresses to cushion their fall.  He was always loved heights, like a daredevil on TV, flying without a care in the world, yet now, he feels like he's drowning. A voice that isn't his own counts in his head, serious and factual, and he knows he's almost to the top, but he's moving underwater.

His eyes open again.

_Not yet. It's only water._

Fifteen. He almost falls on the top step, the sudden change from carpet to concrete staggering him. He grabs the banister to steady himself, wetness suddenly coating his palm and he removes his hand immediately, eyes instinctively moving away. He doesn't have to look to know that it's purple.

_His friends_. The person he never deserved, the person he wanted to see, yet some part of him wanted to go right back down the stairs and never come back. He's scared, he realizes, scared of what he'll find.

_It's only water._

His hand reaches for the doorknob, sliding over the metal with a loud squeak, and he twists his wrist to the right, the slight click of the lock breaking under his grip. His eyes slip shut, a last attempt to bring himself to his senses, to hurl himself off the stairway, to avoid this room at all costs. The purple coils around his feet, trickling through the crack under the door. It fills his socks, his shoes.

The door opens.

_Not yet._

The room is purple, and he retches upon seeing it, stinging acid rising into his mouth that he vomits on the threshold. It's purple, all of it.

The wetness on his cheeks are back, and he doesn't wipe it away this time, letting it wind down his neck and into his shirt, freezing against his skin. There's a thud and dull pain explodes from his knees, and he slides forward a few inches in the purple, head lowered, unable to look upon the scene in front of him.

_Please stop please stop please make it stop._

She's pinned to the table with a sword, the blade pierced through her clothing, the wood, her chest. Purple drips from her body onto the table, staining it a deep violet, the soaked shreds of furniture floating in a pool of purple. Scraps of fabric, initially wrapped around her face, are torn to scraps, pieces lying on the floor. Purple. All purple.

_Not yet._

She's standing, propped up by a second sword, purple winding down her body and pooling on the floor, the handle torn through the closet door, the doorknob lying a few feet away, the shining sliver of metallic purple sticking out of the purple cap that never left her head.

_It's only water_.

He's sprawled on the bed, purple eyes unseeing, the bandanna still on his face, but the subtle smile is gone, the eye-sparkling smile that had been there for as long as he could remember. Purple covers the sheets, drenching them, the ends dripping purple onto the floor.

_His friends._

He wants to cry, to shout, to scream, to ask them why they left him, why they insisted on facing that Inkling alone, why they allowed themselves to be defeated so easily. Anger, hot and stuffy, rises in him, but upon looking up, it immediately vanishes. He can't breathe, can't think. His thoughts are a mess, black, purple, white spots that swirl in his brain, blacking out all rational words.

A hand grips his shoulder and he's pulled from the purple room, hot tears on his face, body shaking violently, someone's arms wrapped around him, holding him close. Someone's voice rings out, high-pitched and feminine, for him to calm down, but he's not freaking out. He has a feeling it's not aimed at him, whatever the other person was saying.

He gasps for air, vision slowly clearing despite the uncontrollable shaking. The tears aren't from him.  The shaking isn't, either.

He sees the bandanna first, white against black fabric, and then he sees concerned eyes, brimming over in tears, something he hasn't seen in a long time, and he smiles, shaky and weak, but a smile nevertheless. 

His mouth tastes like metal, and his gaze lowers slightly to see the silver hilt buried in his gut.

Oh.

He opens his mouth to say it's okay, that he'll be fine, but the words don't come. Instead, a weird gurgling noise comes from his throat and purple spills from his lips, the person holding him gripping him tighter, either in fear or grief he isn't sure.

The black cloth moves, lips press against his own, tasting like sugar and candy, and he melts into it, eyes moving to meet the other's gaze, allowing himself to sink into the swirling depths. 

Liquid drips into his eyes, dark violet against his gaze and blurs the image of the other from his sight.

He would laugh, if it weren't for the irony of it.

 

 

It's purple. All purple.

**Author's Note:**

> <3


End file.
